


Daré

by osunism



Series: The Warmth of Your Doorway [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 07:10:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4129279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Daré</i> is Hausa for 'nightfall.'</p><p>Hadiza Trevelyan judges Samson for the first time. Takes place just before the events of <i>Post Tenebras Lux</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daré

            When they hauled him into the main hall, the silence was eerie, save for the jangling of chains. Samson had been weeks within the Inquisition’s custody, denied lyrium both red and blue, and already the pains of withdrawal had begun to tear at his gut. His skin, sallow and pale, his eyes bloodshot, and his hair, greasy and sweaty as he’d been allowed no time to clean himself, gave him the appearance of the villain the people so craved to cast all blame upon. He stumbled, only because the guards purposely shoved him. Samson’s footwork in battle was self-assured and impeccable…but he was a defeated general, shoved to his knees at the feet of his sworn enemy.

            His enemy, whom was strangely silent, her face a mask of consummate indifference. He stole one glance up at her, quick and hateful, caught sight of a dark face, with diamond-hued eyes set within.

            “His crimes are immeasurable, Inquisitor,” Cullen said from beside her throne, “and it matters not where we send him; they all clamor for his blood. But his head is too valuable to take.”

            Samson almost spat at the Commander’s feet. So it had come to this, then? This man—the man who had been little more than a shell-shocked and frightened _boy_ when first he made landfall in Kirkwall—would dare to stand there and cast judgment? _His_ crimes were immeasurable?

            “You’re too late,” Samson snarled, half-laugh, keeping his eyes on Cullen, “the red lyrium will steal your vengeance. Corypheus only delayed my corruption.”

            He saw out of the corner of his eye, the Inquisitor shift in her throne. Her leg was crossed, and he finally deigned to look upon her. She had been a blur in battle, moving too quick for him to really see her, but now she gazed down upon him as if she were the damned Maker. The fucking gall of these people.

            “Is that what you think this is about?” She asked, “Vengeance?”

            “Not for you, maybe,” Samson said laconically, “but your Commander would have my head if you but gave the order. Look at him, sweating self-righteousness as if he never made a poor decision a day in his life.”

            The Inquisitor’s eyes narrowed slightly, but Samson took his pleasure from the hard set of Cullen’s jaw, the banked fury that burned in the man’s golden eyes, and the way his hand dropped to the pommel of his sword.

            _Do it_ , Samson challenged privately, _end this and keep lying to yourself that you’re the fucking savior Thedas needs._

            “It is my understanding that you willfully corrupted the Templar Order, and kidnapped ordinary non-combatants and turned them into veritable gardens to harvest red lyrium from their bodies,” The Inquisitor—what the fuck was her name?—said harshly. Samson’s gaze swung back to her. She wasn’t angry, not like the Commander, but there was something simmering there beneath her dark brown skin, something that turned the pale gray of her eyes to gimlet glimmers in her pretty face.

            “I gave the templars what the Chantry denied them,” Samson shot back, “a chance to die not as lyrium-addled madmen but as warriors and fighters. If we were to die, we’d die as we were meant to, not as jailers of mages and glorified honor guards for the Chantry.” The Inquisitor uncrossed her legs, one booted foot dropping heavily to the floor with the finality of a gavel’s tap.

            “And the civilians?” She asked him, and there was an edge in her voice. Samson felt the call of anger in her, it compelled him somehow to keep talking.

            “Casualties of war, Inquisitor,” Samson replied, his tone neutral, “I’m sure countless have died in your rise to power.”

            “You have the blood of the entire Order to answer for, Samson,” Cullen interrupted, his anger barely checked, “the blood on your hands is immeasurable.”

            “And what of yours, Commander?” Samson demanded, “How many have you killed to get where you are? How many died because of your negligence?” He turned his gaze back to the Inquisitor, “And you, Inquisitor. You hide behind a pretty face and the righteousness of the Chantry’s faithful. But your hands are just as deep in the mire as mine. How many of my men did you slaughter just to get to me?”

            There was a moment that no one ever defined, but it was common. In the wake of an ugly and brutal truth, there was silence, and the thoughts of all assembled turned inward. A hushed murmur rippled through the assembled nobles and common folk alike. Samson’s sneer seemed permanently affixed to his face. The Inquisitor’s face was unreadable, her black hair swept back to give her face a fine-cut beauty, making her at once fearsome and compellingly beautiful, backed by the severity of a throne of iron and velvet.

            “I bloody my hands to save thousands,” she said, “but it is not myself on trial here, Samson, it is you. You willingly sacrificed innocent lives to a cause that would damn us into corruption. I have seen it, but you will not be granted the death you so readily accept.”

            “And what of my men?” Samson demanded, “Will you mire your hands in their blood as well?” The Inquisitor’s brows raised and she sat back in her chair.

“Those we can save, we will save,” she said at last, the edge to her voice was gone, replaced by the balm of compassion he hadn’t expected to find in a woman with eyes the color of starlight, “but you will not leave this life ere you have amended some of the damage you’ve wrought.” Samson looked up again.

            “It does not matter what you do with me, Inquisitor,” Samson told her, “kill me, torture, neglect, it will not avail you. I’ll tell your people what they need to know…” He glanced at Cullen, and there were arcane lines of text only legible to the two men, detailing their history. Cullen’s anger seemed muted, his expression edging to disappointment. Samson turned his gaze back to the Inquisitor.

            “Everything I ever cared about is destroyed.” He murmured, his shoulders bowing. Samson saw her face change, as if a cloud moved across the sun’s face, blotting out the light. Her expression was…he could not name it. Sadness? Disappointment? Heartbreak? Maker’s breath he couldn’t take that look on her face, so he dropped his gaze.

            Then the steel was back in her spine, her expression closed to him. He could bear that. It made it easier for him to hate her. He wished she’d order Cullen to take his head, wish she’d send him to rot. But he knew in one look that that was not the person Inquisitor Hadiza Trevelyan was. That was not the look a person wore when they wanted one’s blood.

            “I will withhold final sentencing for now,” she said and he made a sound of surprise, which was thankfully overlain by Cullen’s outraged sputter and incredulity, “take him to a cell and see that he is made comfortable. I shall decide how he will best serve within the week.” Hadiza sat up a little straighter, her gaze lingering on Samson, who was still on his knees, his gaze fixed to the floor.

            _Do what you will, Inquisitor,_ he thought with a withering sigh, _your kind always does…_

            “If there is naught else, then we’ll adjourn this trial. Dismissed.”

            Samson didn’t fight or resist as he was hauled to his feet and shoved none too gently, through the main hall to one of the side doors. He didn’t glance over his shoulder to see how Cullen and the Inquisitor spoke, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that her gaze burned between his shoulders, watching him go.

 


End file.
